Chapter Two

The private jet cut through the night sky toward Italy. Dante sat in one of the leather seats with Luca buckled in beside him. His arm rested across Luca's waist, possessive and protective at the same time. Luca stared out the window at the darkness, his face reflected in the glass. He hadn't said a word since they'd left Vienna an hour ago.

Dante reached for the bottle of water on the small table and held it out. "Drink this."

Luca didn't move. Didn't even glance at the bottle.

"Luca, you need water."

Still nothing. It was like talking to a statue.

Dante's jaw tightened. He'd spent twenty-five million euros to get Luca back, had signed ownership papers that made his stomach turn, had walked away from his chance to kill Viktor Kozlov. And now Luca was treating him like he didn't exist.

"I'm not asking," Dante said, his voice harder now. "Drink it."

"No."

The single word hung in the air between them. Luca's eyes remained fixed on the window.

Dante set the bottle down with more force than necessary. "That wasn't a request. It was an order."

Finally, Luca turned to look at him. His face was hollow in the dim cabin light, but his eyes burned with something fierce and angry. "What are you going to do if I refuse? Punish me? Force it down my throat?" He paused, and his next words came out sharp as broken glass. "Oh wait, you paid twenty-five million for that right, didn't you?"

"Don't test me."

"Or what?" Luca leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. "You'll hurt me? Break me more than I already am?" He let out a long breath. "Do whatever you want, Dante. I'm too tired to care anymore."

Dante stared at him, frustration and something else, something that felt uncomfortably like fear, churning in his gut. This wasn't the Luca he remembered. That Luca had been full of life, full of hope and dreams and poetry. This version was empty, hollowed out, and Dante didn't know how to reach him.

He turned away and looked out his own window. Below them, cities passed by, strings of lights in the darkness. His mind drifted back, back to five years ago.

He'd met Luca at his younger brother Marco's apartment. Marco was in law school, and Luca was studying literature at the same university. Dante had stopped by to drop off some money, family obligation stuff, and there was Luca on the couch with a book in his hands. Nineteen years old with dark eyes that looked up at Dante like he was seeing something worth seeing.

They'd talked for ten minutes that first night. Just ten minutes. But Dante couldn't stop thinking about him afterward.

The second time they met, Dante had asked Luca out for coffee. The third time, dinner. By the fourth time, Luca was in Dante's bed in his hidden apartment across the city, the one nobody knew about except his most trusted men.

For six months, they existed in that secret space. Dante would slip away from his empire of violence and blood to be with Luca. In that apartment, he wasn't the head of the Italian Mafia. He was just Dante, and Luca looked at him like he was someone worth loving.

Luca would read him poetry in Italian and English, his voice soft in the darkness. Dante would kiss him quiet, press him into the mattress, and take him slowly until Luca was gasping his name. Sometimes fast and rough against the wall, Luca's legs wrapped around him. Sometimes gentle, learning every sound Luca made.

"You're my light," Dante had whispered one night, his face buried in Luca's neck. "The only good thing in my whole damn life."

Luca had smiled and kissed him. "Then don't let me go."

But Dante had let him go. Worse than that, he'd thrown him away.

It happened on a Tuesday night in October. Dante had come back to his main estate to find three of his best men dead in his office. Their throats cut. Blood everywhere. And written on the wall in their blood were five words: The boy will be next.

His enemies knew about Luca. Somehow they'd found out about the one weakness Dante had allowed himself. And they were going to use it to destroy him.

Dante had spent that whole night staring at the bodies, at the message, feeling something cold settle in his chest. Love made you weak. Love made you vulnerable. Love got people killed.

So he ended it.

He went to the apartment the next evening when Luca was there waiting for him. Luca had smiled when Dante walked in, had started to say something about the book he was reading. Dante cut him off.

"This is over," he'd said, his voice flat and cold. "Whatever this was, it's done."

Luca's smile had faltered. "What? Dante, what are you talking about?"

"You were a distraction. A way to pass the time. But I'm bored now." Dante forced himself to look at Luca's face, to watch it crumble. "You need to leave. And don't come back."

"You don't mean that," Luca had whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "Dante, please, you don't mean that."

"I mean every word. Get out of my life."

Luca had stood there for a long moment, tears running down his face. Then he'd grabbed his jacket and walked out. Dante listened to the door close and told himself it was necessary. He was protecting Luca. If his enemies thought Luca meant nothing, they'd leave him alone.

Three months later, Luca vanished.

Marco had called Dante, panicked. Luca hadn't come home from the library. His phone was off. Nobody had seen him. Dante had mobilized every resource he had, called in every favor, threatened and bribed his way through the underworld looking for information.

Nothing. It was like Luca had disappeared into thin air.

For five years, Dante searched. For five years, he found nothing. The guilt ate at him, turned him into something colder and harder than he'd ever been before. He ruled his empire with brutal efficiency, but inside he was rotting away.

And now Luca was here, sitting beside him, and Dante didn't know how to fix what he'd broken.

The pilot's voice came through the intercom. "Mr. Salvatore, we'll be landing in Rome in twenty minutes."

Dante looked at Luca, who still had his eyes closed. "We're almost there."

Luca opened his eyes and turned to face him. His expression was blank, but his voice was filled with quiet venom. "Tell me something, Dante. Did you ever actually look for me, or is that just another lie you're telling yourself?"